I Run From You
by NotJustAMuggle
Summary: Ron&Hermione's marriage was good until Ron starts to drink. He abuses Hermione until one particularly nasty fight when she has had enough. She heads to the streets, selling her body for money. One night, she meets Draco in a bar and the sparks fly. AU/OoC
1. Chapter 1

Ron staggered into the kitchen drunk with a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hands. His clothes were soiled as if he had spent the day rolling in mud and the stink of alcohol reeked from every pore of his body. His ginger hair was rumpled and greasy; the site of him made Hermione's nose crinkle. "Where is my dinner, bitch?" Her roared at the top of his lungs as if he was talking over a crowd of people, but there was nobody there but them.

"It is almost done, dear. I am just adding the finishing touches," Hermione rushed to finish the chicken casserole she had just taken out of the oven.

"I told you I wanted dinner on the table by 5:30."

"It's only 5:32, sweetheart. Rose had a little accident in the living room earlier this afternoon, and I swear I was cleaning up ink for at least a half an hour. Why don't you just go upstairs and clean yourself up while I finish setting the table?"

Ron slumped his way over to where Hermione was standing and stuck his face right next to hers. She suppressed a gag as the smell of him assaulted her nostrils. "You don't like the way I look?" He growled threateningly.

"Now, don't start that. You know I didn't mean it like –"

"Am I not handsome enough for you? Am I not _sexy_ enough to please you?"

"Oh, Ron, don't start. I didn't mean it like that. You look fine, just go sit down." Hermione picked up the casserole and made her way to the table, only to be stopped by Ron's big burly arm as it knocked the dish upward, sending hot steamy noodles all over Hermione's face and glass crashing all over the floor. She gasped and rushed to get the burning stuff off of her.

"Nobody bloody bosses me around!" Ron's hand flew to his robes, where he retrieved his wand. "Nobody, especially a useless bitch like you, tells me what to DO!" He grabbed Hermione by the throat and started to grope her until he found her wand that was hidden in the breast pocket of her jacket. He flung it across the room.

"Ron, get your hands off of me! Please! Be reasonable about this –"

"Oh, are you saying I can't touch you now? You are my WIFE, Hermione; I can touch you anytime I want." He threw her onto the ground, causing the glass to crunch under the weight of her body. "I am sick and tired of you bossing me around!" He delivered a punch to her face.

"Ron, please! Stop!" Hermione lay defenseless on the floor as punch after cruel punch was executed by the man that she thought she loved. She held back screams, knowing that her darling Rose was asleep in the other room and that screaming would wake her child up.

"Please, Ron, PLEASE!" Hermione thrashed and kicked, trying to get the massive man off of her.

"I am going to make you love me, Hermione. I want you to _feel_ the love I have for you." He roughly unbuttoned her shirt and threw it away. This time, Hermione's lips issued a horrifying screech. Rose woke up from her slumber, and the night was mixed with the screams of Rose and Hermione and the grunts of pleasure from Ron.


	2. Jailbreak

**Chapter Two: Jailbreak **

_Tick tock, tick tock. _The grandfather clock's hands continued their delicate circular dance, stealing seconds, minutes, and hours from those humans that track time so diligently. _Drip, drip. _The coffee pot slowly issued its sweet nectar, getting ready for the six o'clock ritual, when Hermione would settled down on the couch and read _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to her darling Rose. _Drip, drip, ding. _The coffee pot remained untouched. _Swish, swish_. The dustpan and brush that Hermione had charmed to clean up the kitchen floor made its way across the room, sweeping up pieces of broken glass and chicken casserole. It brushed up against Hermione, who was lying amongst the garbage. She winced as its hard bristles scraped against her sensitive and bruised skin. "Ouch," Hermione muttered, pulling herself into a sitting position so she could assess the damage of Ron's rampage.

Scars decorated her arms and legs, cutting through her pale skin like angry red snakes. _Ron was always handy with a knife_ Hermione thought disdainfully. Her legs and arms were bruised, and bite marks covered her chest. A floorboard above Hermione's head made her jump. She held her breath, praying that Ron wasn't going to come down the stairs again. When the house remained silent, she sighed. That simple release of air caused a sharp pain to shoot through her left side. It appeared as if a couple of ribs had been broken. Hermione gently touched her face to find out she had a busted lip, extremely matted hair, and a line of blood gently trickling down her face. This was not the first time that Ron had been this brutal, but it was certainly going to be the last.

Hermione struggled to her feet and found her clothes that had been discarded in the corner of the room. She began to dress herself again. It was apparent that Ron was no longer the kind, loving, and hopelessly awkward man she fell in love with and married. He had let the Firewhiskey consume him and that was now his identity. Hermione and Rose would have to leave before he – before he killed one of them. He had touched Hermione a multitude of times, but God forbid he touch Rose. God forbid.

Hermione carefully walked up to their bedroom, treading so lightly that her feet didn't even make imprints in the carpet. She needed to get a change of clothes for her and Rose and a suitcase. They were leaving tonight, before Ron woke up from his drunken slumber. The door creaked as she pushed it open. Ron was passed out on the bed, his mouth opened with loud snores issuing from it. Hermione waved her wand and a suitcase started to pack itself. She looked at Ron and had a sudden desire to make him feel just a _fraction_ of the pain he had inflicted on her. She raised her wand, thinking of all the curses, hexes, and jinxes she could cast. Then, she stopped. "I can't," Hermione whispered so softly, "I – I still love you." She shook her head, picked up her suitcase, and headed downstairs. Picking up Rose from her crib, she kissed her darling child on the forehead.

"It's just you and me, Rose. You and me against the world." Hermione and Rose headed out the door into the unknown.


	3. Chapter 3: Decisions

**Chapter 3: Decisions**

** Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. **

Pellets of bone-chilling rain assaulted Hermione as she stood on the street corner, suitcase at her feet and baby Rose clutched to her breast. The clock was steadily approaching the witching hour, and Hermione's feet ached from the uphill walk to the bus station. Her luck seemed to have run out long ago because there were no buses running in this weather. The rain had made the streets slick as ice; not a soul was walking about in this saturated hell hole. Hermione could have disapparated anywhere she wanted or used the Floo Network. But magic has a way of leaving tracks, especially for those who know where to look. No, to disappear completely, Hermione had to hide in the one place Ronald Weasley knew nothing about – the Muggle World.

_Should have taken the damn car_, Hermione thought to herself. _It's not as if he knew how to drive the thing_. Instead, she was stuck at this wet bus station without a way of transportation out, minus her two tired legs. Raindrops slid down her cheeks like tears, and she looked out into the street with despair, craning her neck left and right in search for headlights. "Only a lunatic would drive in this weather…"

Suddenly, an idea sprung into Hermione's mind. She took her right hand and plunged it into her pocket, rummaging for something. Quickly pulling out a slender and delicately engraved stick of polished wood, she grasped it firmly and stuck her arm, stick and all, towards the street. To any muggle happening to walk along the street, Hermione would look a few marbles short of a bag. But to the magical among us, it was a different story. She was hailing the Knight Bus.

Instantly, a large triple decker bus with a bright purple paint job came hurtling towards the wet witch. Hermione leapt back as the glass doors slid open with a hiss. Small golden letter were placed above the windshield: The Knight Bus. A hand had emerged from the doorway of the bus and a voice infused with a thick Cockney accent cried out, " 'Ere, love. 'Op in. It's rainin' 'ippogriffs an' bowtruckles out there". Hermione proceeded to toss her suitcase aboard and grasped the hand, which pulled her into the bus.

The hand's owner was Stan Shunpike to whom old age had been rather harsh. True, he was no longer the gangly, acne-ridden teenager Hermione remembered, but other less attractive features had crept their way into his appearance. A prominent receding hairline was visible from underneath his black, shabby conductor's hat, and his purple jacket seemed to be tightly cinched around the middle. His face held a permanently dazed expression, no doubt procured from the vast number of Imperius curses cast upon him in his youth. He chatted amicably to Hermione, fingers fiddling with the ticket machine that hung around his neck.

"Nasty night, ain't it, miss? Where you headin'?" Stan looked up at Hermione, then proceeded to let out a strangled yelp at the sight of the witch's bloodied and bruising face. "Bloody 'ell, miss?"

Hermione mentally cursed herself. Amongst all the other events that occurred that night, she had forgotten to clean herself up. She had not had the chance to glimpse at her appearance, but judging by the horrified look on Stan's face, it wasn't pretty. They stood in silence for a moment before Stan managed to rub a few brain cells together and speak.

" 'Cho want to go to St. Mungo's, miss?" Hermione sighed.

"No, I am fine. Honestly. I just need to…" Hermione looked around at the practically empty bus. What did she need? _To hide_, she thought bitterly, _but where? _Anywhere within the Wizarding World was off-limits. One of her first thoughts was Harry and Ginny's place, but that was not possible. The legend of the Golden Trio had followed Harry, Ron, and herself for the majority of their lives, and an abused Hermione showing up at the Boy-Who-Lived's doorstep would bring about all sorts of scandal that she did not want to pass along to her good friends. And if any of the Weasleys were to find out about Ron's actions, they would skin him alive. As appealing as the thought was, Hermione knew it was not wise to involve them, either. Perhaps her parents, but there was the issue of Ron finding her there. There was no place for Hermione to turn. "Might I stay here for the evening?"

Stan stammered a response. "Sure, miss. Right this way." He led her down the aisle to a bed in the corner. She thanked him and sat down upon the lumpy bed. As if on cue, Rose stared to whine. Hermione sighed and looked around. Nobody was looking, so she pulled down her top and started to feed Rose, murmuring softly to her.

"It's been a long night, hasn't it, my love? And it is just going to get longer. But I've got you, my darling, I've got you – Nothing's going to harm you, not while I am around."

**Thanks for reading! Sorry for the long delay. **


	4. Chapter 4: When You Wish Upon A Star

**Chapter Four: When You Wish Upon A Star**

_Beep, beep, beep. _Hermione rolled over on her bed and let out a soft groan. _Beep, beep, beep_. The alarm clock was persistent, continuing its regime of loud mechanical noises. _Beep, beep, beep. _Lifting a heavy eyelid, Hermione glanced at her clock. The glowing red letters read 8:45 p.m. Another groan was issued as she lifted one leg then the other out of the protection of the warm, woolen blankets. The room was dark, curtains shut tight to prevent any outside light from creeping through. Her night shift started soon, and she needed to get ready.

Fumbling her way across the ridiculously tiny one bedroom apartment, Hermione swore as she bumped her hip on the perfectly positioned rickety dresser. Three weeks she had lived in this miniscule dwelling, and she had yet to memorize the layout of the room. She flicked on a lamp and frowned at the dresser that seemed smugly set on perpetually being in Hermione's way. In fact, the only thing it was particularly good at was making sure it stood directly in her path. Heaven knows it cannot fulfill the purpose it was designed for. Hermione would rather trust her clothes with a rabid cat than leave them in that dresser. It leaned drastically towards the left hand side of the room due to the fact that a leg was missing. The paint job, which had once been an eggshell white, was now so cracked and yellow that it resembled buttery, stained teeth. When Hermione first stepped into the room and pointed out the faulty dresser to the landlord, he merely grunted, "it's got character" then left Hermione to gaze at the spectacle.

The room was dirty, small, and shabby, really unfit for the nastiest rat to live in. She had tried a few cleaning charms, but it seems that some dirt just cannot be removed. Still, it was a place to sleep, which Hermione did not possess before she inhabited room 3C at Thorn Hill Place. She needed the discreet nature of the building, a place where the likes of Ronald Weasley would never find her. Besides, she could not complain too loudly; she was renting the room for dirt cheap.

Hermione checked on her darling Rose, who was lying asleep in one of the drawers that belonged to the faulty dresser. _At least the dresser is good for something_, she mused. She waited there for a moment, watching over her sleeping babe. This was not an ideal situation for either of them but thanks to Hermione's magical gifts, she was able to set alarms around her child so that she was protected when Hermione went off to her night shift. Definitely not how Hermione wanted to raise her daughter, but a mother would do anything for her child. And right now, Hermione was desperate.

Grabbing a pair of clean underwear and a decent top, Hermione made her way to the small bathroom, blinking as she clicked on the light bulb. She began to dress, peeling off pajamas that needed washing soon before they got up and walked away. Tousling her brown wavy locks, Hermione looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Over time, the mirror had fallen prey to Lord knows what chemicals and had lost its clear luster. Now, she gazed at a distorted image of a prematurely aged witch who, like the mirror, had lost her luster. Dark circles invaded the perimeter of her amber colored eyes and her hair had succumbed to its original frizzled state. This was Hermione Jean Granger Weasley, top of her class at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This was Hermione, who had expanded S.P.E.W into a national campaign that protected the rights of house elves as well as other magical creatures. This was "the brightest witch of her age" – a barmaid at the Horned Toad Pub. She had tried and tried to find a job at a fine establishment, but due to her background, the search had been futile. Muggle interviewers would ask her about her background and work experience, but as far as they could see, Hermione left school when she was eleven years old and was home schooled until she was seventeen. There was no talk of the Os she had received in her O.W.L.S. or the dozen classes she managed to fit into a single semester. No, to an ordinary Muggle, Hermione Weasley was a school dropout. So she had found a job at the local pub. Not ideal, but it paid the rent money for this shoddy place. One last look made Hermione wonder if reality lie within that distorted frame. Perhaps Hermione was nothing more than a fading image, slowly slipping away from everything that was real and worthwhile. Slipping away until she was nothing but a shadow of a person, the echo of a life once lived…

Shaking her head, Hermione managed to look away from her reflection. Self-pitying thoughts would do nobody any good around here. Rose was counting on her to take care of her. So Hermione kept moving even though every last muscle in her being begged her to stop. She had to push forward, for Rose's sake. Giving her hair a pathetic brush thru, she made her way back into the bedroom, grabbing her handbag. Before she walked out the door, she gave herself one last glance at Rose. The baby slept, oblivious to the hardships around her. Hermione cast a few protective charms then left the apartment, making her way down creaking steps. As she walked outside into the night air, she shivered. London was never known for its warm weather. The night was chilly with a few clouds covering the night sky. Looking up, Hermione saw a faint star pushing its way towards the earth, shining in spite of the obstacles that tried to stop it. A lone star doing what it had to in order to make it. Hermione closed her eyes, feeling a little childish, and wished upon that star. _Give me strength, please, give me strength. _Taking only a minute longer to gaze at its wonder, she continued to walk, hoping that somehow, someone heard her plea and would answer it. Somehow…

**Thanks for your continued support, lovely readers! I am debating on whether to bring Draco's past into the story, so give me a review if you want to see what he has been up to. I just want to see if people are interested. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five: **_

Unkept, blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight, gaunt jaw pressed against cold metal. The ruin of a man watched through the ornate window as the world around him lay nestled in serene slumber. Not a voice was heard, not a leaf rustled in the wind – all was still. And it was almost paradoxical that such a man as he could exist in such a peaceful world. For, while his surroundings echoed the epitamy of calm, his heart felt as if it were tossed like a boat amongst violent waves. He was drowning, begging for a life raft, and there was nobody to hear his pleas.

Time had marched viciously onwards, and left a path of destruction in its wake. The man could recall a time when his lips held a smile and his clothes did not hang across his thinned body. No unkept stubble crouched upon his face and each hair upon his head was meticulously groomed into place. But that was a time long ago, a time when there was hope in that cavity called a heart. He looked up and saw a dimly lit star shining against a dark backdrop. Any other individual would have made a wish. But Draco Malfoy was all out of wishes.

Draco had spent many a night in a similar situation, roaming the halls when sleep escaped his grasp. Malfoy Manor was a vast estate, filled with many vacant rooms. However, despite his almost limitless choice of places to explore, Draco always found himself coming back to this one. His mother used to entertain tea in it with her friends, as a kind of sitting room. It had been many moons since her feet had walked these floors, and the furniture had acquired a layer of dust upon it. The only place that showed any signs of use was the grand piano in the right hand corner of the room. On sleepless nights, Draco found comfort in its ivory keys. He would play soft melodies until the sun broke over the horizon.

The war had been cruel on many levels, and taken away many loved ones. Lucius Malfoy was convicted for being a war criminal, and sent to spend the rest of his days in Azkaban. He did not make a fuss, walking willingly with the Dementors, stopping only to plant one final kiss upon his wife's cheek. But Lucius Malfoy was not a strong man, and his body quickly wasted away in that pit of despair. Narcissa could not stand it, and upon hearing of her husband's death, she died of a broken heart. So Draco was left the estate and for the sake of tradition (as it is one of the few things Purebloods have left to cling to), he kept it. He brought his wife, Pansy, into the house and attempted to make a new life amongst the ruins of the old. They had tried to start a family, but Draco found that making love to her was like making love to a corpse. The terrible events of the war had affected some people worse than others, and what Pansy had endured had left her dead inside. So many images of friends strewn across the grounds like broken dolls. Pansy had left her spirit on the battlefield that night, and what was walking around was nothing more than a breathing ghost. Draco felt like the only sane one amongst himself, Pansy, and the old house elf named Gnarp, but even Draco's sanity was slowly slipping away.

A noise broke Draco out of his thoughts. He turned to see his wife standing in the door of the room, moaning out the names of their fallen comrades. Her dark hair hung like a curtain over her dead eyes and her billowing white nightgown enveloped her shrinking frame. Indeed, she looked more dead than alive. She staggered across the room with jerky steps, calling out to the deceased.

"C-C-C-rabbe! Crabbe!" she groaned. Draco knew she could see them too. Hogwarts students draped across the sofas, lying on the carpets, mouths gaped open in death. No matter where they went, the fallen were with them always.

"Crabbe!" Draco rushed to meet her halfway, and upon his touch, Pansy melted to the ground. Pansy flailed her arms, fending off the horrible images that were seared in her eyes. Draco expertly wrapped her into a tight embrace, pinning down her moving limbs against their chests. He held her like a frightened child, not an inch of space separating their bodies. They shook in unison as sob after heart wrenching sob echoed from Pansy's lips.

"It will be okay, Pansy. It's alright my love. I'm here. You are safe now, my darling," Draco whispered soft words into deaf ears. And, upon the dusty carpet of a dream that lay dead, they knelt among the invisible fallen. Tears squeezed their way out of Draco's eyes as he clung to the one person he had left in this world, and he wished, with all his heart, that he could heal the wounds upon her broken heart.

_**And that wraps up another chapter. Tell me what you think, guys! Apologies for the gap in between chapters. **_


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